Blue is the day. Blue is the sky above their heads.

Blue is the strip of sea to their west, running the length of the land. Blue is the river to their east, running the course of its history. Blue are the people caught in between, still and silent. This day is special; this day is the chosen one. This day thunders with the muffled voices of innumerable agonies; with the silenced voices of millions, conveyed across the river Styx. On this day, gushing decades of wrath and shame slam like a fist of steel into the gut of a nation, year in, year out. ow much melancholy can a single day take! "hy are its #andorean burdens not more evenly distributed among its calendric comrades! Sure, other days may help lighten the load somewhat with offerings of testimonies, tales and reminders; bits and pieces that make up the pu$$ling portrait of this most solemn of horrors. %evertheless, that very horror is left for this day and this day alone, so as to stomach, shed a tear, abide. &s stiff as a lollipop, ' wake up from a particularly smutty dream of virginal proportions; so smutty, in fact, that smut itself would have turned away, blushing. "ith a mind still sedated by the sweet, indigo fog of the land of %od and a warm, sticky feeling in my nether region, ' roll out of bed, wash my face, brush my teeth and pop a couple of $its on the verge of nuclear fusion. Since graduating from high school, '(ve had to give as much as a good comrade can, rising and shinning before the sun itself and laboring in the fields with my fellow )ibbut$ members. Soon enough though, even this devil ' know shall be replaced by an even duskier, never*ending tunnel that is the obligatory draft into the arms of the 'sraeli +efense ,orces.

But this day is special; this day is the chosen one. Today, there is no labor. &t present, there is no future, only the past; -ust a cloud of gloom that slowly spreads across the land, grasping the throat and s.uee$ing bit by bit. ' stride across the tiny room that has been my very own home away from home ever since ' turned fourteen years of age, smooth a fold in the colorful map of the globe decorating my wall and turn on the radio. Oy vey, only sounds of glum emerge; six feet long re.uiems keeping the living tied to the deceased by the ankle. There(s still a while to go until the /emembrance +ay ceremony is to commence, so ' decide to rise to the occasion and go for a stroll outside, rather than allow the occasion to bury me in its blue*blooded melancholy. %onetheless, even the affectionate rays of early spring under an a$ure, cloudless sky do very little in lifting my spirits, as ' stroll up the hill, absentmindedly making my way toward the school grounds '(ve outgrown but a fraction ago. Strolling along the fence ' used to -ump so often as a boy, ' am kept company by the monochromic images of a frightened little boy, facing a %a$i soldier with his arms raised in petrified submission; a desperate mother, shielding her baby from the barrel of a %a$i rifle with her bare body; a ragged old couple, sheepishly lead to the slaughter. ' leave those companions behind, knowing all too well that none of us could ever truly be able to leave them behind, and cover the short remaining ground to the hilltop. There(s a splendid view of orchards and fields from the top of this hill, which makes this spot a perfect one for daydreaming and solitary contemplation. "ith a deep sigh ' lean against a short terrace and light myself one of the cigarettes ' nicked from of my mom(s pack. +amn, the bastard be menthol. ' sigh once more, exhaling blue smoke with a refreshing added flavor, and watch the busy road far below, connecting the densely populated center with the deserted south. Suddenly, out of the blue, the sound of a siren begins to raise its deep tenor wail; a low*spirited whimper at first, yet steadily rising into an unwavering authority. ' .uickly -ump to my feet and lower my head, as sheer time comes to a standstill. 0very last car on the road slows to a halt, as people exit their vehicles and remain rooted where they stand. The commotion of school kids .uickly dies out, to be immediately replaced by utter, fro$en, dead silence. 0ven the birds are silent.

The sky, the sea and the river are silent. The people are all so silent. The day is silent. 111 There(s a splendid view of orchards and fields from the top of this hill, which makes this spot a perfect one for daydreaming and solitary contemplation. %evertheless, it(s not contemplation '(ve climbed up here for, on this rainy, full*mooned winter night, but the exciting possibility of Scud spotting. The year is 2332, and several days ago, the 4S led coalition unleashed a +esert Storm upon Saddam ussein and his 'ra.is, in retaliation for his invasion of neighboring )uwait. &s a most cunning retaliation of his own, Saddam decided to throw any old rusty Scud missile he could spare at 'srael, who, though not a member of the attacking coalition per se, nonetheless remains forever the devil behind the scenes. &lthough the "hite ouse was only too happy to supplying us with #atriot anti* aircraft missiles, as a result of a most clear and present threat of chemical and biological warfare on the part of the 'ra.is, ghostly panic .uickly spread throughout the land, sending old stagers down to the basements, young veterans on deranged supermarket raids and warhorses fleeing the whitewashed cities. &rmed with miles of bleached nylon sheets, tons of scotch tape and different si$e gas masks for adults, children and infants, expressly issued and hurriedly distributed, men*of* war descended into their plastered basements and constructed sealed rooms, for the whole family to hastily retreat to at any given hour the sirens might sound. 'n this country, practically every male between the ages of adolescence and retirement is also a trained soldier in the reserves. Suddenly, all that was left for many of these inactivated combatants was a helter*skelter kind of amassing of emergency provisions. 'n addition, many were those who forsook homes and comfort in the main urban centers for the sake of comfortless hospitality at the homes of others in the countryside.

&nd so, fre.uently enough, the ever so feared radio broadcasted codeword 5viper( would send families in different parts of the land flitting into sealed rooms; usher children into dreams of venomous reptiles and adults into nightmares of poisonous gases. "hite were their days and white were their nights. "hite and pale with anxiety, #ure and simple. To the sound of a distant siren and in the light of a hard*boiled moon, a bunch of milky teenagers gather, drinking beer, smoking stolen cigarettes and shooting the bree$e, while keeping their enthusiastic eyes fixed on the fluorescent sky. "hile the viper might send the rest of the country fleeing for cover, them it sends darting up the hill instead. 't might be the fearless nature of adolescence that keeps them away from the safety of sealed rooms, or maybe the less than primary strategic importance of their )ibbut$ in the grand 'ra.i scheme of things, that grants them prime spectator status. &ll of a sudden, someone spots a faraway missile; a bright red speck, barely visible in the pale moonlight. 'n soundless awe they all watch this glowing smudge, steadily growing more and more eminent on the background of the night sky. &s the rocket whooshes far above their heads, and with the roaring cheers of the spectators, two tiny white dots shoot up from an undisclosed location in their vicinity and rapidly make their interceptionary way towards the impassive Scud missile. That spectral death star glides on, while the two persistent white*dwarfs steadily close in on it. & hair short of interception though, the two apparently persistency*challenged #atriot missiles simply give up, arch away in a most submissive manner and begin dropping back down towards a ground that could not be welcoming to the impact. &nd the old Scud, a heap of -unk thrown together at the last minute and hardened by the urgency of wartime, keeps to its steady course, slowly floating further away, until it disappears completely beyond the hori$on. The crowd is dumbfounded; half*cra$ed, half*drunk yet wholly dumbstruck. One by one, kids*soon*to*turn*soldiers begin to drift away, back to sheltered little houses, over to

homes of panic*stricken parents, into the arms of awaiting girlfriends for a consummation of this diminutive yet up, close and personal apocalypse. Saddam, among the very few state leaders widely known on a first name bases, shall soon raise the white flag, doves shall soar and this storm would blow over, leaving but a modest number of casualties and small*scale destruction on this side of the 6iddle*0ast. ' too stroll down the gravel path, along the school fence ' used to climb over so very often back in not*so*faraway days, in search for previews of exams yet to come. But there are no more tests to cheat on no more, -ust the trickle of grains of white sand through the fragile hourglass of independence. 111 The day is silent. The people are all so silent. The sky, the sea and the river are silent. The only sound that exists is the unwavering authority of a wailing siren. Birds aren(t singing and dogs aren(t barking; the wind isn(t blowing and the river isn(t flowing. &ll around, cars stand at an impasse, fro$en in mid*commutation. 6en, women and children, so animated but moments ago, going about their daily business with the levity early spring brings about, now stand at a gloomy attention, fro$en in mid*prayer. ' too stand tall and proud, dismal grasping at my throat, s.uee$ing tighter and tighter at the lump lodged in it. Only moments ago ' was sitting at a terrace caf7 in the center of this small town, feasting on a potato*filled bourekas1, when, out of the blue, came the low*spirited whimper of the siren, clenching me by surprise. 4nable to risk the unruliness in swallowing at this so very revered moment, ' allow my eyes to slowly drift upwards instead, leaving the pavement, taking in the motionless couple standing by the nearby table, eyes to the ground and hands -oined; the barely matured soldiers at the bus station, as reverential and rigid as a salute; my blue*eyed friend, the actor, totally immersed in his impression of a true blue patriot.

'sraeli stuffed pastry, based on the Ottoman Brek

,urther away, a town*full of people are fro$en in reverential stiffness by the side of their cars, inside their shops, in front of their T8s, in mid*football games, throughout factory halls, office buildings and construction sites. 0ven furtherer away, a country*full of people share in this dreary, mute reverie under the tur.uoise skies, for all those who have fallen; for all the soldiers who have sacrificed their lives in the short, yet turbulent, course of existence of the state of 'srael. Then, after a two minute long eternity, the siren begins to fall away, still maintaining its deep tenor wail, yet losing its unwavering authority, releasing reality from its steel grip and allowing it to unfree$e, to exhale once more. One by one, people begin to drift away, back into subservient cars, into shops, restaurants and caf7s, into the arms of various toils and preoccupations fit for the consummation of fruits of labor before diminutive yet personal lives shall expire. &s for me, ' finally swallow the hardened pastry lump and sit back down. Our annual +ay of /emembrance has -ust begun, and shall henceforth unfold throughout countless memorial ceremonies and ceremonial mourning. owever, on this blue day, ' myself simply do not seem to experience .uite a similar state of untainted grief and de-ection as ' do on that chosen day of blues, which took place but a mere week previously. %evertheless, ' confess, as the world around me regains mournful ordinariness, that there is hardly a single person in this country that has not lost loved ones to the plentiful wars and hostilities plaguing this state since the very moment it gained independence, as it has for centuries beforehand and probably will for tragic decades to come. & thunderous burp shatters my contemplative state of mind, for my friend has finished his cheese*filled bourekas and is now leaning back in his chair and lighting up a smoke. 9&m ' a heartless bastard for not feeling all that mournful on a day like this!: ' ask. 9;ou(ve always been a heartless bastard, /emembrance +ay or not,: he replies with a grin. 9%evertheless, on a day like this, we should all feel mournful for those who gave their lives so you and ' could be here.: 9 ere! ;ou mean at Sami Bourekas in this city of orchards and cow*shit!: 9See, you(re not -ust a heartless bastard but a cynical one at that,: he sums it all up.

"hile he goes to get himself another one of these wondrous, rich and fluffy stuffed pastries, ' light a Time cigarette of my own and watch the 6*2< hauling kids in uniform board an old, worn*out city bus. The couple at the nearby table leaves, to be replaced by three toddlers, shepherded by their young, weary looking mom. 9't(s -ust that this is worlds apart from what ' felt on the +ay,: ' add, once he returns with a spinach*filled pastry. 9Oh, the olocaust=: he replies= Most people seldom seem to be able to proceed beyond that. 9Oh well, you are who you are, and we love you for that,: he sums it up again, 9-ust as long as you(ve got a cigarette to spare for an old friend,: he adds, then turns around so as to give the toddlers a good fright. 'n cemeteries all across the land, people are gathered in a somber salute to the blue blooded memory of loved ones; of husbands and fathers, sons and daughters, friends and lovers who, nevertheless, from six feet under hold the foundations of this land. Blue are those people, forever but a single step away from sorrow. Blue is the strip of river to their east, for which they fight. Blue is the sea to their west, which they defend. Blue is the sky above their bowed heads. Blue is the day. olocaust /emembrance